Monday, April 30, 2012

Just now, I didn't see the saxophone player who was practising four-note riffs into the pendulous roots of the Moreton Bay Fig when they were mowing the lawns of the park last week, or at least supposed to be mowing the lawns, as there are still those thicker islands of more luxuriant growth, which make walking tricky if you stop looking down.

During the rains -- when we were still calling it La Niña even though everyone had said that La Niña had already finished -- when the mould grew high on the rabbit's droppings and even the less used end of the table had a milky film -- our neighbours were leaving the shells of their melamine chipboard cupboard components out on the verge (none of them actually all of the cupboard, it always seemed: just the split and rotten parts), like cleaning a mouth.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Surely, catching sight of someone else's eyes in a bus or train window does not constitute catching sight of that person, we said; the reflection of the projection of their seeing intersects with ours, and ours with theirs; the illusion that is the reflection of the projection. No person at all involved.

Friday, April 13, 2012

She pointed out to me the way the dog turd made a perfect soft-edged crescent against the petals of the camellia flower on the verge. Is that why the owner never removed it? we wondered. Not a negligent owner of a dog at all, but one who in the least significant places, sees the glowing beauty of the world.